


Hand Me My Leather

by 1000Needles



Series: Hand Me My Leather [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000Needles/pseuds/1000Needles
Summary: This story is set pre-road trip, in the Crown City, where an awkward encounter in a leather bar changes the previously professional relationship between Gladio and Ignis.





	

Truth be told, Ignis finds the leather scene rather tedious, but he makes a point of cruising Insomnia’s gay bars once every few weeks anyway. It's a good way to blow off steam after a frustrating day at work, and anyway, the only other place he’s going to find fresh meat is at the butcher’s. He isn't surprised to run into Gladio eventually—the man practically advertises it, the way he dresses—but he is surprised to nearly trip over him in a dimly lit bathroom. Gladio's legs are sticking into the path of the door. He's in the midst of giving what appears to be very enthusiastic head to a graying leather daddy who's leaning against a sink with both hands wrapped in Gladio’s hair. Ignis knows it's Gladio, he would recognize that ass anywhere.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, sidestepping them, and goes to a urinal to piss. Gladio is making frantic eye contact; Ignis zips up, gives him a friendly nod, and leaves.

The next day he’s reading reports in his office when Gladio walks in without knocking and puts his hands on Ignis's desk. He probably doesn't mean to slam them, but he’s a big guy and he’s obviously worked up about something.

“If you tell the king about this, I will end you,” he says without preamble.

Ignis looks up from his phone. “I hardly think His Majesty is interested in what you do with your cock, Gladio. Or with other people's cocks, if we're being precise.”

“This isn't funny,” Gladio growls. His hands are still on Ignis's desk, where he has disarranged the papers, Ignis notes with annoyance.

“Awfully demanding for someone last seen on his knees in a public restroom.”

Gladio leans over the desk and says, with tightly controlled fury, “This is the last time we're going to talk about it. Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Ignis sighs, drops his phone to the desk, and stands. He moves his fingers rapidly in a splash of blue light, but instead of a dagger it’s a long, narrow object that appears in his hand. Not a lance—he flexes it, smiling, and Gladio's eyes widen as he realizes it's a cane.

“You're an intelligent man,” Ignis says. “If you weren't so angry, you might have stopped to consider what I was doing in a sleazy leather bar on my night off. Your secret is safe with me, Gladio.”

“Excuse me,” Gladio mutters, and flees. Ignis waves a hand; the cane disappears in a sparkle of blue. He goes back to the reports.

 

LOADING 

 

Ignis is always scribbling in that damn notebook. Gladio, who will read the cereal box if there’s nothing else on the table, can't help being curious, and it irritates him. He has no interest in what goes on inside that man’s head.

Until one morning when he gets out of the shower and sees Ignis has left his locker ajar, and the notebook sitting on top of his neatly folded clothes. He knows it's a dumb thing to do, but he picks it up.

It's full of recipes. Gladio thumbs through, amused. Page after page of ideas for spice blends and new smoking techniques and—

Erotic fiction?

It’s actually not bad. The mechanics are described a bit more clinically than Gladio would prefer, and he’s not sure anyone really does that much humming in bed, but it’s cleverly written, and—

“Is that my _private notebook?”_ Ignis is framed in the doorway, barely flushed from his workout, not a hair out of place.

Fuck, thinks Gladio, I'm an idiot. He puts the book back and says, “Sorry.”

Ignis regards him coolly. “Did you really think I'd leave a locker door open without doing it on purpose?”

Gladio feels his face heat. “That wasn't fair play.”

“You've been making eyes at me since we ran into each other at that club.”

“I haven't!”

Ignis looks pointedly at the towel around Gladio's waist, beneath which his body is clearly expressing a different response.

“I will say this one time only, Gladio. Stay out of my private life, or suffer the consequences.” He heads for the showers and tosses back, as if an afterthought, “Although you might enjoy that.”

Gladio has never gotten dressed so quickly in his goddamned life.

 

LOADING 

 

Ignis has never paid any particular attention to Gladio before, except to note that he seems to be a good influence on the prince. Not really Ignis's type; clearly built for fast, rough sex and nothing more cerebral than that. Ignis likes games, and for that he prefers a partner who can appreciate the elegance of his strategy.

After their locker room encounter, though, he finds that Gladio has emerged from the cast of assorted palace staff as a somewhat more interesting individual. For one thing, he’s never without a book in his hand. Ignis wants to ask what he’s reading, but after laying down that edict about their private lives, he knows it would be a bit hypocritical to start prying now.

For another thing, he’s incredibly hot.

Ignis finds himself coming to meet the prince a little earlier than he needs to, because the prince tends to dawdle, he tells himself, not because he enjoys watching those last five minutes of their sparring practice, when Gladio is dripping wet and bounding around with a huge smile as he knocks the heir to the kingdom flat on his ass one more time.

 

LOADING 

 

Gladio has taken to working out late in the evening, and says it's more convenient to be available to the prince all morning. He only half-admits that he's also avoiding Ignis, who is an early riser. And it's nice to have the gym to himself, with no one staring or asking for advice.

He pushes himself harder than usual one night, to the point of exhaustion, and for some reason in the shower the image of Ignis leaps into his head.

“Fuck,” he mutters, lathering his body. Ignis in front of him, flexing that cane, smiling, the light glinting off his glasses. No, don't think about it. Ignis in his office, giving him a nasty verbal beatdown, ordering him to—

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” Gladio groans, one hand braced on the tile wall, the other wrapped around his soapy cock. He comes hard, and immediately puts the thoughts out of his head. There's no accounting for the crazy shit your brain will pull out of thin air, he knows that.

He’s starving and all he can imagine now is food. Towel-dried, his hair still wet, he throws on sweats and a tank top and heads to the royal kitchens, where he fills a plate from the fridge, closes the door, and runs directly into Ignis Scientia.

It's a miracle he doesn't drop the plate, or a testament to his well-honed reflexes. He juggles it lightly for a moment before regaining control; Ignis staggers back two steps and puts a hand to his nose, where Gladio’s shoulder slammed into it.

“Ow.”

“Shit,” says Gladio, putting the plate down on the counter. “Are you okay?”

Ignis eyes him warily, and Gladio feels like an idiot again; the man clearly despises him. Then he smiles. “My fault for surprising you like that. I was just coming out of the pantry. I wasn't expecting anyone at this hour.”

“I'll get out of your hair,” Gladio says, picking up the plate.

“Don't go on my account.” He has a smudge of flour on his nose where he’d touched it. “I'm almost done.” He moves to the other side of the kitchen, wraps his hand in a towel, pulls a baking sheet from the oven. In spite of himself, Gladio pulls up a stool and sits; the smell that's rising from the little golden bundles is amazing, heady with spice and butter.

“What are you making?”

“Oh, it's for the prince—something he liked once.” Ignis sighs. “I never get it right.”

“I could taste-test for you,” Gladio offers, and immediately curses his own stupidity. He's doing a monumentally terrible job of avoiding Ignis so far.

“Certainly,” says Ignis. He puts two of the little bundles on a plate, slides them over. Gladio, cold leftovers forgotten, bites into the crisp, flaky pastry and yelps, fanning his mouth.

“I would have waited,” says Ignis, his lip quirking. He starts clearing up the dishes. Gladio blows ineffectually on the pastry, which is billowing steam.

“Can't all be as cold-blooded as you.”

Ignis turns and looks at him. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“They used to call you Iggy Iceheart at university, remember,” Gladio says, making another attempt at a bite.

“A poor joke. As you know, the etymology of my name—”

“Are there _roses_ in this?” Gladio interrupts.

Ignis actually looks interested. “Yes. You have a perceptive tongue.”

“That's not all my tongue is good for,” says Gladio, before he can stop himself, and immediately wants to drop through the floor. Shiva's tits, he’s not goofing around with his Kingsglaive buddies. This is a royal scholar and advisor to the throne! Ignis is staring at him, arms folded, face unreadable.

“We’ll see,” he says. “Come to my office tomorrow night, same time.”

He leaves Gladio alone in the kitchen with a rapidly escalating sense of oh shit, what have I gotten myself into now.

 

LOADING 

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Ignis leans back in his chair and considers Gladio with cool amusement. “Are you sure you’re submissive?”

Gladio flushes and drops both his gaze and his aggressive stance.

“I understand,” says Ignis, “why you thought you could waltz in here, enjoy a quick blowjob, and get a nice pat on the head.” He straightens his glasses. “That is how they do things in the leather bars. It's not how I like to play, though.”

Gladio, in a more subdued voice, says, “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

“No, just the filing, please. Thank you.”

Which is how Gladio finds himself spending the next two hours on his knees in Ignis Scientia’s office, not sucking his cock, but alphabetizing papers. At first he’s merely annoyed—what a waste, he knows how desirable he is, this is a job an intern could do! Then, as tedium sets in, the closeness of the other man becomes hard to bear. Ignis appears totally indifferent, tapping away on his tablet, making notes in his book. It's some kind of a test, Gladio tells himself, and after—what? He hadn't exactly been expecting whips and chains, but surely Ignis wanted him for—something?

At twenty-three hundred hours, Ignis looks at his phone, gets up, and says, “That's enough for tonight.”

Gladio is flabbergasted. “That's it?”

“Well,” says Ignis thoughtfully, “you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.”

“Th– thank you,” says Gladio, stumbling over the words that arrive without intention, and gets out of the room as quickly as he can without actually running.

But the next night he’s back. He fought the decision all day, telling himself it was pointless and a waste of his time, and yet there he is, on his knees, filing Ignis Scientia’s meticulous reports. This time he gets a brief ruffle of his hair in passing, as Ignis goes to refill his coffee, and the unexpected contact makes him almost pathetically grateful; he has to dip his head for a moment and breathe, getting control of himself.

It goes on like that all week. On the third night, when he sees Ignis getting up, he says, “I could get your coffee for you,” adding, hesitantly, “sir?”

Ignis looks at him, and for the first time it feels like he’s really looking at him, not bored or thinking about troop movements or whatever it is that goes on behind those inscrutable eyes. “Just Ignis is fine. Thank you, that would be nice.” He sits down.

Gladio walks to the kitchen, his knees protesting after kneeling for the past hour, and thinks, I must be out of my mind. But he goes back.

On the fourth night, when he drops down in front of the cabinet, Ignis snaps his fingers without looking up from his tablet. “Here.” His chair is only a few feet away; it would be silly to stand. Does Ignis expect him to stand? Gladio goes to him on hands and knees, face burning, expecting a reprimand, but when he kneels up, Ignis looks pleased, and he finds himself dropping his eyes under the weight of that appraising gaze.

“I think you’ve earned this,” says Ignis, and extracts something from the desk drawer. Oh. It's a gag. Gladio opens his mouth patiently, allows it to be fitted around his head, but Ignis is right, it does feel like a treat. He waits, hands clasped behind his back, until Ignis is finished.

“There you go. Turn your attention to L through N, if you don't mind; I believe some research on mesmenir horns may have been misfiled last month.”

 

LOADING

 

“I think,” says Ignis, his voice soft and considering, “it would be a bore to waste restraints on you, when you have such beautiful self-control.”

Gladio shudders, his muscles already burning in the unnatural position. His hands are held straight over his head, his hips back in a half-squat, thighs parallel to the floor. They call it chair pose in the gym, and it's a bitch to hold for more than a few minutes.

It's the fifth night. Ignis has locked his office door and is leaning against it, watching. “Have you ever been caned before, Gladio?”

He takes a deep breath. “No.”

“It's quite a bit more intense than floggers.”

“I— have heard that.”

Ignis steps forward, runs a finger over the curves of his bicep, the curves of his tattoos. “And yet you're so curious about my cane. Why, Gladio?”

Answering the question is harder than holding the pose. “I don't know.”

“Interesting. Let's see if we can find out.”

  



End file.
